Twitten
by seabroth
Summary: Mari thinks he likes Samumenco. Goto thinks, no he doesn't. [MasaGo]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Samurai Flamenco.

x

"I knew it." She says, as if he has suddenly become the same trash she beats in dusty alleyways. One heel thuds against the roof of the car while her magical wand rests at her side in a firm, tight grip. "Your heart's decided on Samumenco."

No, that's not how it is, he thinks. He says. Legs wrapped around Hazama's own, arms at his neck. Bent into him, to lightly push him into admitting more than just defeat. It's a standard suppression routine, a standard outlet of frustration. It's not just him, or _them_.

Goto lets go.

x

"You've got it wrong." He tries. The uniform he borrowed from her is cleaned, pressed and returned, sitting in a paper bag on her coffee-table amidst crumpled notes and cheesy, painful lyrics. A photo of Moe is hidden in the debris, the blue of her hair peeping out between unfinished rhymes about days gone by. His hands are still in his lap.

"How so?" Mari sounds like she already knows what he's going to say. Sipping a drink, laying in an awkward position on the couch, drumming her fingers against the lid. Chewing at the straw, in tune to some half-way composed song. He ignores it. When life isn't about fighting, laws and lawbreakers, the scream of a man in the night - she isn't interested. Just as he thought.

"I just like him in a friendly way. A normal way." He tries again.

"How many friends do you even _have_?" She asks callously, pulling her knees to her chest. Her skirt reveals a hint of panties as she slumps backwards, and the cup is empty. She sucks air through it anyway, as noisily as she can, grinding her teeth into the plastic.

Sighing, he readies to leave.

x

In the convenience store he buys instant curry, canned coffee, snacks and beer. Mostly beer. Glances over the magazines, and dallies on a pack of cigarettes.

The bag is heavy, and he stops on his way to Masayoshi's place, checking the time on his phone. Almost sends a message, then flips it shut. He's going to have a talk, he thinks, and a long night. A longer morning. His girlfriend hasn't sent him anything in a while - still sulking. He'll wait.

The thick, white plastic rustles at his side. But there's nothing to hesitate about.

He rings for his friend on the intercom outside the building, and after a moment the door unlocks. Goto taps his fingers against one arm in the lift, bag of supplies hanging by the grasp of his right hand, and meets him with a not-quite-grimace at his door. Masayoshi looks like he hasn't slept. Or rather, like he has just awoken.

"What's this?" He asks, trying to peer into the bag - Goto brings out the packaging, the tins, the receipt. _Take one of these,_ he says, tossing him a lukewarm coffee; the drink patters into Masayoshi's open hands.

They sit together on the couch, Goto beginning to down the alcohol as fast as he can. He isn't trying to be subtle - he stopped that a while ago, when he realized it was no use.

"Did something happen? You shouldn't drink so much." Masayoshi is tentative, concerned. Staring straight into him.

"It's my night off." He snorts. "And yeah, something happened. That girl. You know, she still won't believe me."

Masayoshi slowly turns the can of coffee around in his hands, looking at the label. He isn't good at people, Goto knows. He doesn't understand the problem, and Goto knows that too. They've tried before. They'll try again. "She really causes a lot of trouble... Didn't you tell her you have a girlfriend?"

"That's the first thing I said." I'm taken. I've a girlfriend. She's the best woman I could ask for. Never does he say_ I'm not gay._

"Um... Goto-san, does it bother you, that she thinks that?" Masayoshi's quiet, and serious, and the draw of his mouth suggests something. He'd talk to her about it, if it were a problem. He'd say too much.

"It's just annoying." Goto laughs, awkwardly. Dismissively. Reaches forward to pat Masayoshi on the shoulder, accidentally tipping over one of the empty cans in front of him with his knee. It clatters against the polished wood, and then to the floor, and the sound is too loud. His hand is still stretched forward.

"You know, in hero shows -" and here he rolls his eyes, finding himself reaching for his lighter, "love is the most powerful emotion. When you love someone, you have something to protect. You grow stronger."

"Yeah?" he replies, not watching the way he's followed to the balcony. Steadfastly, laboriously, not watching Masayoshi's face as it leans into his view. The scent of curry. Oncoming rain, mixed with tugs at the cigarette. He breathes out, and smoke is disappearing into the rooftops; and he feels himself loosen. His thoughts linger, at the place on the metal railing where faint, sweaty prints remain even after he has drawn away. He isn't thinking about being remembered.

Masayoshi is looking at him, and he isn't looking back.

"So what do you have to protect?" he says, finally.

He rids the world of evil when he snaps the cold, metallic handcuffs against a perpetrator's wrists. Protects the innocents of citizens, when he patrols - slowly, monotonously, panning back and forth with a dying flashlight into each crook and alleyway. But to Samurai Flamenco...

"The whole world."

Later, when he lets himself think about it, staring at the crosswalk next to the police box - he pinpoints his feelings in a nice, understandable way. Men and women are too separate. And Masayoshi is separate even from the rest of men.

xxxx

There should be something in-between these existing chapters, but I haven't managed to write anything that fits yet.


	2. Low Battery

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Samurai Flamenco.  
Takes place around episode fourteen, when Samumenco sees Mari at Goto's place.

x

Masayoshi steps in and shuts the door, moments after Mari slams her way back into the washroom. The intake of his breathing after the shock fills the air. They are still, for a moment, until the vibrations fade away and the look on his face returns to normal. Then Goto's face is still buried in his palms, and Masayoshi tentatively places a hand on his shoulder in order to get him to look up.

"Um... Goto-san...? It's not that bad, is it?"

"It was supposed to be a secret," comes the tired, weary mumble. Masayoshi decides to steer him into the bedroom for a chat, grasping against the thick plush of his sweatshirt to pull him away from the wall, fingers tightening ever-so-slightly against a lack of resistance.

"She's already been putting me through hell, you know..." He hears the sigh as the door to the room closes. When they've settled onto the bed, legs crossed awkwardly on top of the blanket, Goto finally looks back to meet Masayoshi, pulling his hands to his lap.

"...Tell me. You saw her, naked, and you didn't feel anything?" Goto starts in a low whisper, eyes narrowing. Cupping his hand against Masayoshi's ear with his weight shifting towards him. As if he knows she's is listening in through the walls of the room next door, huffing at each syllable. At the confused, slow shake of a head in response, he almost leans himself against Masayoshi's shoulder.

Fingers twitching against the warmth seeping through his own trousers.

He's thinking about it, too much. Again. Goto imagines a startled gasp, imagines himself pressing the two of them against the flat of the door as Mari stands at the wayside, water dripping onto the linoleum. The towel falls. Masayoshi slides against him, groaning at the sight past the curve of his neck, flushed, eyes bright. If she were to step forward, all slick fingers and angry, _needy_ grasps -

"... I'm going to ask you a question." he says, finally. Withdraws himself to grasp at the hem of his sweatshirt; Masayoshi only sees that the hands are trembling, as if he'd already been drinking for the night.

"Did you notice...?" The words are almost silent, now. Face averted, beginning to blush, he lifts up the folds gathered at his lap. Revealing himself. What he can't speak of is evident, but before words can be uttered, Goto covers Masayoshi's mouth.

And Masayoshi coughs afterwards, gradually tracing his lips with the back of his hand, unsure where to look. He settles on the coffee table, where the edge of a note tips out from the pages of a newly-purchased magazine. He settles on the television, a layer of dust across the top.

When Mari storms in, soon after, she's tugging down Goto's spare jacket as far as it can stretch. Thighs pressed together. Her attention is fully on Samumenco, and Goto's glad for once.

"_Get out._ Or couldn't you hear me?"

And so, Goto tries to nudge him into common sense. She stands watch, and he - decidedly, unhurriedly- pockets his mobile from the kitchen counter. Mari's still pointing when he turns around. Toeing into his shoes. Forcing Masayoshi though the doorway.

"I shouldn't be out long," he tries, and she scoffs at him from her place several steps back. Then that door, too, slams shut. The cool weather hits him, and he draws himself closer together, and he follows the shape of Masayoshi's back.

xxxx

Just assuming Goto has linoleum, I have no clue, I don't remember what his flooring looks like.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Samurai Flamenco.  
Takes place directly after episode sixteen. Masayoshi enters Goto's house after being on the run.

x

"Took you long enough, idiot."

The door closes. His cardigan is suddenly mussed. And he draws Masayoshi into his bedroom by the touch of his hands — _I almost... it was just bread, you know..._ — he's hearing the trembling, feels the collapse onto the duvet. After a moment Goto presses food into his lap, tapping the inside of a thigh with the plastic. Masayoshi's legs are stretched out at the edge of his bed, shoes and socks removed.

He's leaned into. For a slow, weak moment, Goto caresses a lock of hair in front of him, moving it out of Masayoshi's line of vision, and then leaves again to find a drink.

"It's alright now," he says, gently.

Their fingers accidentally touch around the glass, and the leftovers are soon gone. Silently watching. When Goto rises to fetch some more a hand clasps around the base of his wrist, and he can feel the grease on his skin, and he can feel the rough, lonesome stretch of fingers that have scraped against walls and railings and park benches in the dead of night. It hasn't yet shifted to daybreak; worryingly, he glances towards the already-drawn shades. Masayoshi turns to lay on his side, nudging himself against the blanket, tension easing from the edges of his shoulders.

He goes to ask something. If he'd want coffee, another blanket, a shower perhaps - but the words still on his tongue. The rise and fall of Masayoshi's chest in slumber is comforting. Goto sits down, back resting against the form of the bed, and slides his hand underneath for a magazine. One he's read before.

The mess left by the girl before him is cleaned up, quietly, footsteps intentionally-light in between glances towards his bedside; occupied. He turns on his laptop, moves it to the kitchen counter in case the klackering awakes him - checks the news. Thinks of the day at work, and the day before, and the day before that, and all the times that Masayoshi has worried him.

Goto turns the lightswitch off, checks the lock on the front door. He stands in the entryway to his room, and Masayoshi is a lithe, huddled form in the shadow. He stands to the side, overborne, and watches the matting of the corner of his eyes. He stands, watching the frown gracing his sleep.

_Get up._ He says, shaking him. Harder. The palms of his hands grasping at the ends of his shoulders, one sliding down to catch his middle. Shaking him again. And Masayoshi opens his eyes, blearily, recognition, _shock_ -

"...Goto-san?"

His expression is awkward. A twist of the lip, a turn of the face.

"You'll shower now." He's saying, tugging him to his feet. If Masayoshi's fingers linger, just a little, before he starts to hold his own, he doesn't respond. "And I'll change the sheets. And then..."

Masayoshi's looking up at him. An ache is almost present in his sigh.

"...And then we can both go back to sleep."

xxxx

I wonder if my writing is too vague all the time... oh well...


End file.
